


found in translation

by mister all rounder (jeadore)



Category: UNIQ (Band), X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Love, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, hinted Sungjoo/Yixuan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeadore/pseuds/mister%20all%20rounder
Summary: In the peak of the summer of 2014, Seungyoun fell in love with a pretty faced gremlin with broken Korean. It may had taken him a year to figure it out.
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Wang Yi Bo
Comments: 24
Kudos: 58
Collections: Different Pools Fic Fest





	found in translation

**Author's Note:**

> I intended for it to be a short, cute fic but haha, Leo Bros feels hit me. So _ta-da!_
> 
> Dear prompter, thank you for such a cute prompt. I'm not sure if my story is up to your ideal, tho.  
> And to the mods: thank you so, so much!!♥ For this wonderful fest dedicated to our Seungyounie and for dealing with me. 
> 
> Warnings: small time jumps, underage drinking mentioned.  
> Enjoy!

♦

His palms are sweaty. He would like to blame Seoul’s summer, humid and scorching hot, but he’s awfully aware of his anxiety kicking in.

One might think this is normal, hardly different from the other times he did it, so he should be used to it by now. And yet—

His palms are sweaty.

♦

Seungyoun met Yibo for the first time at Incheon Airport, body visibly shaking with excitement.

He had freshly turned 17 and loved airports and all it embodied—the come and go, the new adventures, the restless waiting before and during a natural phenomenon, the alluring shopping area. His parents had told him about this arrival the very same day of his birthday as if it were another gift—the chance to be a host to some foreigner kid, to teach him cool things about Korea and to learn about another culture—and Seungyoun being Seungyoun, embraced like it. The upcoming unknown, the funny misunderstandings, the weird and adorable perks. For once, he’ll be the host.

It was an exchange sponsored by his school that his parents agreed to the moment the principal gave them a call, possibly to feel less guilty about working most of the day and leaving their only child alone. Not like Seungyoun had ever blamed them; when the economy was in a slump, they had started to work more and more to support their lifestyle and, then, they just couldn’t stop. It was capitalism, it was a habit. More hours of work meant that they would try to turn Seungyoun into a spoiled nice child every chance they got. They could afford to travel abroad and they still went to eat to fancy restaurants together a few times per week. Nothing really different from the others families in his neighbourhood.

Except that now they were going to become the typical Korean host family.

So, Seungyoun expected a brother. He got a Yibo.

On the surface, the kid coming to them with a huge suitcase and a stern face looked cool and aloof, exceedingly beautiful. The kind of kid Seungyoun will not make any effort to befriend. He liked happy people, rushes of serotonin, fun times.

His choir sunbae used to say it was a dumb mind-set to have because people behave differently given the situation they find themselves in and, moreover, because Seungyoun’s dumb personality draws people like bugs to light. Then Seungyoun usually said that Sungjoo was the dumb one there because—well, because their friendship was built on the basis of Seungyoun messing with him until Sungjoo let out a deep sigh and decided to mess back, but _also_ —Seungyoun had never changed his demeanour, regardless of the people he was with. And there was no way that Seungyoun was the exception to rule.

But, to be fair, he also liked challenges, rushes of adrenaline, to make people feel good. So he was going to give this kid a chance, even if he stood, stiff and distant, and gave a small awkward nod as a greeting.

“Hello. My name is Wang Yibo. Thank you for taking care of me,” he said mechanically, like if it was a phrase he was forced to practice over and over during the flight. Dubious sincerity in his voice.

Then, he did something with his mouth. Yibo’s lips shifted, like a tiny, nervous smile.

Seungyoun found himself returning the smile, full 200 watts on.

The house they lived in is actually an apartment in Gangnam. Luxurious without being obnoxious and well-located, but more suitable for a couple or a small family. So Seungyoun’s already small room was reduced to half the moment they set another bed.

When his mother asked Yibo over homemade dinner if he was okay with it, Seungyoun expected every type of answer; not the deep, relieved sigh. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

During that dinner, they also discovered that Yibo struggled with the metal chopsticks—its weight and length completely different to the wooden ones used in China—and that his English was no much better than his Korean, which wasn’t a lot. Still, he was able to make himself understood.

“Really? A ’97 liner? Then I’m a year older than you,” Seungyoun commented after a few chuckles, as he showed the other boy the way he grabbed his own metal chopsticks. Yibo mimicked him, one stick still slipping from his finger.

“Ah, I should… hyung. Call you…” He mixed formal and informal speech, with a few notes of tautness.

“Not necessary,” Seungyoun dismissed with a vague hand movement. “I don’t care about that age stuff.”

His mother gave him a look that promised further nagging later, while his father had a warm calm smile on his lips. As a topic changer, he suggested: “Maybe you two will have classes together.”

“Oh? What’s your major, Yibo-ssi?” Seungyoun asked, formal despite his earlier words.

“Dance.”

“Really?! You should show us!! I’ll drop the beat!”

“Seungyoun-ah,” his mother called, the same tone she always used to scold him about the mess in his room, “calm down a little. Yibo must be tired. I’m sure you two will dance a lot soon.”

Immediately, he nodded, lips closed in a fine line—something between a pout and an effort to hold back chuckle, especially when he casted a look towards the other boy. Yibo’s expression was _funny—_ composed, yet betraying something tainted with ambivalence; amusement and confusion. Like he wasn’t even sure what was going on. Like he wanted to leave the table, to not be the centre of their attention (Seungyoun’s attention, Seungyoun’s hyperactive attention) and to let himself be carried away by the fading beatboxing at the same time. It was kind of cute.

Later, when he was helping him to settle in his, _their_ room and in their lives, Seungyoun caught the kid moving unconsciously to the distorted, farther sound of the record his father always played at night. Yibo’s moves were small and a little too hip-hop for Louis Armstrong. It spoke volumes about years of practicing, of engraining dance into his bones, of barely contained energy.

Wang Yibo was, _is_ , from China. Born in Luoyang, moved to Beijing at the tender age of eight. There, he discovered dancing. This much Seungyoun learnt over breakfast, when they got up at midmorning. Yibo’s hair was dishevelled, face bloated as if he had rested nothing during the nine hours he slept, and his eyes bulged at the sight of the table. Seungyoun’s mom went overboard again with the side dishes, just one or two dishes away from becoming a meal for the whole building.

“It’s always like this?”

“Nah, I usually have cereal and milk, plus some coffee. Or pear tea that my auntie brings from a far, far place like western Itaewon,” he answered as he grabbed both the thermos and the box of corn flakes. He couldn’t help but smile at the way Yibo nodded slowly, maybe still translating in his mind, maybe just out of politeness and pride. “She’s just happy,” he added at a slower pace, his smile turning fond, “of having you here. Of having this side of the exchange experience.”

In between mouthful of cereal and fruit, Seungyoun took his time to enumerate his own many experiences abroad.

First, Brazil. In a small beach town 40 minutes away from Sao Paulo where he lived for almost two years.

Then he went to Los Angeles—a trip to visit his aunt’s family, yet he spent most of the two weeks roaming the streets of the sunny city, checking dance studios and cool music shops. Once he got lost in Santa Monica Pier and it was damn amazing. He got on a ton of amusement rides until his stomach got upset, then he hopped in the Ferris wheel to watch the sunset over the ocean, the once blue sky brushed with deep orange and pinkish clouds. It was beautiful. Soothing. Like a healing sight, like a smooth ballad. It helped to ease his sick stomach and his loud mind.

Lastly, he studied in an international school in Manila for a year. Actually, it was more like ten months, because he had to comeback for some papers issues during the first month and by the beginning of the summer, he came back earlier, right after school ended, to meet up with his choir sunbae before he went abroad too, in his case, a semester to China. But it was cool nevertheless, because he got to go down to Cebú with a bunch of his school friends and every weekend they walked down the Roxas Boulevard.

Yibo listened to him attentively, gaze fixed in his face all the time, as he munched on a toast. Seungyoun expected for the other not to understand, or a reaction like _wah, that’s cool_ , or even to be called out on his bragging. Instead, Yibo finished his toast and said: “You really like sea, huh?”

Seungyoun laughed. “Yeah, I love beaches. But the city too! Come on, finish your breakfast, Yibo-ssi. I think we’re out of milk.”

The nearer grocery store was only two blocks away to the south, an enormous E-Mart that occupied a whole building, but he convinced Yibo to put on a cap and leaded him towards the east. More than seven blocks and fifteen minutes later, they opened the glass door of a small convenience store and roamed through the aisles until they got to the refrigerator displays. The small “Ohh, _nai lao_ ” that slipped from Yibo’s lips definitely made worth the walk.

Seungyoun had only tasted Beijing yogurt once, when Sungjoo hyung brought him from his trip, but he rather preferred the tasty cheaper yakult. Still, he hoped it would mean for Yibo the same as the hole-in-the-wall store that sold Melona back in Brazil had meant to him.

They bought two ice creams and a big bottle of water, just in case, because it was summer in Seoul—it was humid and hot, concrete everywhere and nearly no shade, the sun shining bright over their heads. They walked around a bit, no bigger rush than their own hyperactivity, as they nibbled on their fast-melting ice cream and Seungyoun showed him the neighbourhood.

To their left was the park he played at all the time as a child and the street to their right leaded not only to the avenue, but also to the Gangnam Subway Station. A cool place. They could totally go there later to check the tons of stores and cool off under the air-con.

“Only if you are not tired!” Seungyoun exclaimed. “If you need to take a nap, just tell me. And if I have to speak slower or repeat myself!”

Their school was a bit farther, but they weren’t going there yet because in less than two weeks they'd be there all their time. Bummer. Besides, Seungyoun’s parents usually dropped him off.

Yibo grinned and kept up with him. Even with his limited Korean, he made sure to answer Seungyoun now and then, even sharing bits of himself.

Born in the cold northern city of Luoyang, Yibo had lived in an apartment nearer to the Longmen Grottoes than to the modern administrative hub of the city. Sometimes, he would go to the temples and the grottoes to see the Buddha statues—big, enormous like mountains or Mechas—and sometimes he played hide-and-seek there with his grandpa. He knew every corner and every path of the caves, having had been lost there hundred times.

Then his family moved to Beijing and he had been so taken aback by the bigger, louder crowd—people, people, people _everywhere_. But it also introduced him to buskers and dancing and different genres of music and different kinds of arts, especially when he had stepped into the 798 Art District out of mistake. Beijing had introduced him to his _passion_.

That last part wasn’t told, but guessed by Seungyoun. It was easy to picture it just from listening him speak. Anyone that payed attention could tell; Yibo loved fast-paced Beijing and its vibrancy just as much as he loved the grottoes and their cold, quiet hidden-spots.

Seungyoun wondered: are we the places we lived in?

As every other adult do to teens their age, his parents asked the _question_. At least they did it during the ride back after walking around the night street market in Yeouido for hours—they didn’t do shopping as much as they did were sightseeing the Han River and filling their bellies with street food as they watched the traditional performances.

“What would you like to study, Yibo-yah?”

“Dance.”

“Oh, I mean after school. What would you like to do in the future?” his mother reformulated. Then, to extend her explanation, she added: “Our Seungyounie wanted to be a professional football player first. But, after he came back from Brazil, he decided he wanted to pursue music.”

Slowly, Yibo nodded as he pondered on the question. Still, he repeated, “Dance.”

“Like idols?” Seungyoun offered. After all, Yibo had the looks to be one and the talent too, for sure. But with those round eyes, slender and symmetrical face? The lean, tall, proportional and still growing body? The ethereal beauty and mysterious, alluring foreigner aura? Hordes of fans would be swooning for him.

Wouldn’t be weird if SM or mid-tier agencies tried to scout him.

Yibo shook his head. “Too smiley. Like… uh, shows.”

“As a back-up dancer?”

“That too. But shows like… _Tiantian Xiangshang_. It’s a show… like Infinite Challenge!”

At the same time that Seungyoun murmured “A variety show, right?” his father asked if their shows were available in China, voice tinted with surprise.

“Ah, no. I use a VPN and watch it online,” Yibo explained. However, Seungyoun was pretty sure his father didn’t understand how. “That’s how I learnt Korean.”

Seungyoun opened his eyes wide. “Really? That’s so cool! You have to show us _Tian…_ that show and teach us Chinese, too!”

With a small grin curling up his lips, Yibo accepted. Not really a promise, but a glimmer of solid confidence. Later, he turned to Seungyoun and asked him in a thinner, hushed voice: “And you? What do you want to do?”

He even had the kind delicacy of not doing it with his parents in the same room.

♦

Every time Seungyoun is asked what his dream job is, he says “translation _”_.

People usually frown or raise their eyebrows and, the very next moment, inquiry if he has not attended Hanlim. Then why would a student from such a prestigious art school choose that as a career? He should have enrolled in a language academy! What a waste, _tsk_.

Seungyoun finds his own joke particularly funny.

♦

The day Seungyoun met the famous Zhou Yixuan, was for this reason: Seungyoun realized Yibo couldn’t pronounce his name right.

It wasn’t like they tried. “ _Cho_ Seung- _youn_ ,” he enunciated, complementing every syllable with a small knock in the table to set the beat, totally determined to have Yibo say it right from then on.

“ _Zhou_ _Seon-yang_ …?” Yibo said, though. Almost exactly like he had been articulating it since he arrived.

So Seungyoun called Kim Sungjoo for help. His choir sunbae was actually his sunbae from elementary school. They had met during the first four, five weeks that Seungyoun had joined choir before dropping out because it collided with his football practice. And by the time that Seungyoun left for Brazil, Sungjoo had long graduated from elementary school. Still, they remained friends and Sungjoo had been one of the few that kept on contacting him after the craze of the new, exotic place died down.

Sungjoo hyung hadn’t exactly asked him how was he holding up, but had recounted dumb stuff in his emails that helped him palliated the numb, overwhelming feeling in his chest. ( _Super Junior has added a new member!! He sings well :D What is S2?? OH, and a lot of girl groups debuted!!: SNSD, Wonder Girls, Kara…not sure how they’re gonna do tho. SNSD are cute!)_ But that part he didn’t tell Yibo.

Instead, he proclaimed that Sungjoo hyung's own experience abroad was prompted by his.

“That’s not true and you know it,” Sungjoo said as soon as they greeted each other at the Gangnam Subway Station and caught up on the talk. They went to a bubble tea shop to try on the new flavours and then to a LINE friends store to play with the plushies. “I did my exchange because I wanted to. The only thing your experiences helped me with was to plan wisely my luggage. You know that this kid packed a padding coat to Brazil? _Ta shi yí ge bendan_!”

Yibo chuckled under his breath, lips curling around the straw of his white chocolate milk tea. “He called you idiot,” he translated. Seungyoun’s bewildered eyes grew wider and he hit Sungjoo in his forearm.

The thing was: Sungjoo had lived in Beijing for a year. It had changed him—not a lot, he was still this annoying bonhomie hyung, but it did. Since he had come back, he did his college entrance exam, decided to drop off music and matriculated in Business, and only told this to him when Seungyoun went to his graduation. “Singing is my hobby, Youn-ah. And when I see great numbers, I sing too.” But Seungyoun knew that he meant something else.

Those words meant he was afraid of ruining something he enjoyed, of going further with it and finding despair instead.

He had never pried. Sungjoo was the kind of person that didn’t have reservations—unable of keeping a secret, for that matter—, so if he didn’t want to tell, it must be something he would not appreciate people prying on it. Even if it was out of the best intentions.

The thing actually was: Sungjoo had lived in Beijing for a year. His Chinese was quite fluid, so he could had been able to help them.

Sungjoo was of absolutely no help.

He only embarrassed Seungyoun at any chance possible, almost like it was his job, and started to coddle Yibo like if he was a baby. At least he was cautious at first and looked for any signs of Yibo being uncomfortable before starting to unleash his cheery pestering nature.

“Aww, why didn’t you tell me that Yibo-ssi is such a cute guy, Youn-ah? Way prettier than you too. You wanted all his cuteness for yourself?” Sungjoo complained as he patted him in the shoulder. “Come on, Yibo-ssi, say his name again.”

“I’m not cute,” Yibo said, instead.

“Yes, you are.”

With a sigh, Seungyoun realized two things: Sungjoo hadn’t even reached his peak and this was going nowhere.

“Hyung, you said you were going to help us!”

Sungjoo blinked, offended. “And I’m here to do it! I already texted Yixuan-ge to meet us when he’s done.”

Then it was Seungyoun’s turn to blink, surprised in his case. “He’s in Korea?”

The other rolled his eyes. “I’m pretty sure I told you.” No, he didn’t. Seungyoun wouldn’t had missed the chance to bother him otherwise. “He’s been here since… late June? He’s doing an internship in Yuehua Ent. And then I think he’s going to take some courses at my university? But that’s not sure yet.”

So… Zhou Yixuan was there. Seungyoun had honestly no idea of how to pronounce his name or how he looked like, having had only seen a few pics on _cyworld_ of Sungjoo exploring China with a bunch of different people and, lately, of Sungjoo clubbing with a few college friends. But he felt like he knew Yixuan already—Sungjoo had named him so many times after his trip that Seungyoun even started to call him _the boyfriend_ , just for the kicks.

They bought a mini fan and hopped in the subway car of the Bundang Line in order to meet Yixuan halfway, between Gangnam and his campus in Yongin, and so Yibo could check another neighbourhood and, maybe, Lotte World. Or maybe only the latter, because summer was merciless and they felt like they were melting, cotton shirts already sticky.

Zhou Yixuan was everything he had ever heard and more. Nice, optimistic, understanding, well-behaved—a whole gentleman. Always talking with a soft voice and doing almost 45° bows to every person they encounter, even strangers.

And, apparently, a better tour guide than both Seungyoun and Sungjoo.

“We could go to Caribbean Bay next time,” he offered in broken Korean, slightly better than Yibo’s. Then he turned to Yibo to explain him in Chinese that it was a big water park and something more that Seungyoun wasn’t able to even guess. “Oh, over there. I know a place.”

The place was a small, traditional joint in a trendy street that served _bingsu_ , almost completely crowded by older people escaping the afternoon heat. Yibo looked so enthralled by the process of making _bingsu_ and the different types of toppings, and it was so cute that Seungyoun thought of buy him often. The one who payed was Yixuan, though. Apparently, during the short walk they did together, he had adopted them as his sons. And Seungyoun was well-educated enough to refuse.

“So. About my name,” Seungyoun started as soon as they got a table, “can you help us? Unlike Sungjoo hyung.”

Sungjoo complained, mouth full and not even bothering to swallow. At his side, Yixuan raised his eyebrows, bewildered. So Yibo proceeded to explain to him, a bit in Korean, mostly in Chinese.

“Can you repeat your name? I’ll try,” Yixuan asked, small abashed smile blooming in his face.

“Cho Seung-youn.”

“ _Zhou Seo-yeng._ ”

He deflated with a small loud groan. Never thought his name would be that difficult. He did remember some people having it hard, but he excused it to the fact that those were western people.

“Maybe you should change your name,” Sungjoo said, mouth still full and mood totally livelier. That hyung… he was _enjoying_ it. “Back in Beijing, people called me Jin Shengzhu. And weren’t you called by a different name in Brazil?”

“Luizy,” he muttered and Sungjoo did some embarrassing gesture like a _ta-da!_

But that was in _Brazil_ , he wanted to complain. He was the foreigner that wanted a cool name there. Now they were in Korea, so Yibo should be the one trying to adapt. No, scratch that. Truth was: Seungyoun wanted, _craved_ , to hear his name in that deep voice.

As an afterthought, a Chinese name sounded cool. Something he could use in a future trip.

By the time they bid goodbye at the subway station, Yixuan had already saved his number as _Cao Chengyan_. A name they came through by searching in naver and by lots of deliberation, that may or may not had involved lot of teasing from Sungjoo and a lot more of jokes from Seungyoun himself.

A cool name, really. Easy to pronounce even for him.

“Boys, did you do something fun today?” his mother asked upon seeing them back.

“Yeah! We had _bingsu_ today,” Yibo answered with something akin to fervour. “It was really tasty! Right, Seungyoun-ah?”

And Yibo gave him a smile. A tiny, sly smile.

That— _gremlin_.

“Yah! You could say it right all this time?!”

And Yibo broke into peals of laughter. He laughed and laughed like an honest to God, beautiful gremlin. Mouth wide open, white teeth peeking out, deep toned guffaw. He even doubled his laughter when his mom scolded Seungyoun for being loud.

In retaliation, Seungyoun sometimes called him _Ippeo_. Sounded accurate, tho.

Throughout the last week of summer, Seungyoun learnt a bunch of things about Wang Yibo. Nothing extremely outstanding, but small sides of him he couldn’t help but appreciate in his new day-to-day.

For starters, Yibo wasn’t really chatty. But once he got comfortable, he kept the conversations flowing smoothly. He wouldn’t mind to be corrected over a mispronounced word— _au contraire,_ it somehow motivated him to try to improve his vocabulary and speech forms.

He was focused. He knew what he wanted and he’d keep doing it until success. Even if it was just playing games.

He was a gremlin. Okay, no breaking news there, but it became really easy and funny to joke around with him. Especially to tease Sungjoo, because Yibo could still play his angelic façade.

And yet, he was considerate. Not really the kind of person that would be paying attention to others, but he wouldn’t dare to cross any line. Unlike Seungyoun, he wasn’t uncomfortable with awkwardness, but he didn’t see the point of it either.

He also wouldn’t mind to share his clothes. Not that Seungyoun asked, but he had offered him to wear any of his lighter shorts so he wouldn’t feel like he was on fire in those jeans he wore around Seoul even at midday. And then Yibo went all “Oh, thanks. You too.”

He was a YG stan. Not exactly an avid fan, but he would hum Fantastic Baby or Baddest Female at any hour. However, when it came down to dancing, he would stand by SM and only say “Taemin.” They’d also roam the streets, singing along and wiggling their butts to Jason Derulo’s Wiggle.

The most impressive was that he could learn choreographies easily. Just a glance and he could copy the key moves idols did on screen or in the free concert they went to together.

The school uniform fitted Yibo just right. Actually it was better, way better, than just right. Even if he had long noodles arms and legs, he was proportional and the uniform embraced his body perfectly. It broaden his shoulders and highlighted his slim waist. Seungyoun didn’t know why this stood out to him; after all, Seungyoun was proportional too. Maybe was the formality that caught his attention, having gotten used to seeing him walk in big comfy T-shirts. 

And at some point, maybe while they were in their room, waving their hands and yelling “ _Happiness!_ ”, Seungyoun realized that there was nothing he disliked about him.

However, the most exceptionally, outstanding and amazing thing he learnt was during their first day of school, when he accompanied Yibo to the administration office.

“You were born on August 5th?” he blurted out, eyes wide open and surprise overtaking his voice. He didn’t need an answer; Wang Yibo’s passport was there, open in the first page, showing all his biodata info and a quite nice ID picture—which was totally unfair, by the way. “Me too! We share birthdays!”

_Amazing_.

Amazing and a bit embarrassing that it took them three weeks to find out such a rare, precious coincidence.

What were the odds to host a boy born in the same day, just a year and a country apart? Be it coincidence or destiny, it felt absolutely special. Something that was only theirs.

“Really?” Yibo asked and Seungyoun nodded, enthusiastically. “Then we both Leo? We must be like…uh, Leo _zhiji._ ”

Faint taints of blush were visible in Yibo’s face, a stark contrast to his lips that were becoming pale where he didn’t stop nibbling. He looked around with sneaking nervousness and tried to find the words to explain _zhiji_ , but it became a mixture of Korean, Chinese and awkwardness, hard to pass on.

Seungyoun blinked, confused. “Ah, you mean like twins? Brothers born at same day?”

Something flashed in Yibo’s face. Something shimmering and obscure at the same time, like a wince. But it gave way to a smirk and a curt nod. “Yeah, sure. Leo Twins.”

And they fist bumped.

(Later that week, Sungjoo told him it’s actually not that exceptional, as surprising as it seemed. There was something called the _Birthday paradox_ that showed that it was easier than people’s common sense dictated. Especially in a very large group of people—by the _pigeonhole_ principle, it would happen for sure.

Seungyoun shut him up. He didn’t speak maths. He spoke experiences and, maybe, emotions. And just like the Birthday paradox wasn’t actually a paradox, Sungjoo wasn’t grasping his point.

“Yes, but you talk about finding pairs in a big group. I’m talking one and one. There’s more than five art schools in Korea with more than 300 students each one, but he came to _my_ house. It’s not like he has been asking around. We just blindly met. That’s special.”

Sungjoo squinted at him and then scoffed, “You talk like he makes _you_ feel special.”

“He does!” he assured him, his voice pitch high. “We were born the same day. We are Leo Twins! Keep up, hyung!”)

To say that people at school liked Yibo would be an understatement.

People at school _loved_ Yibo. Perks of being extremely good-looking and cute when he acted like he didn’t understand shit. He was a pretty good actor, but Seungyoun had learnt to see past his façade. Suddenly, Yibo’s accent was considered _sexy_ and his broken Korean, _charming_. (It was.)

In a few days, he became the star of the Dance department—all the _extravaganza_ without even seeing him truly dance. Sometimes he thrived under the attention, sometimes he got overwhelmed, and sometimes he looked truly annoyed.

Seungyoun was downright amused. He could see the logic behind the other’s crisis—he had pictured it since Yibo arrived.

After all, Yibo was the kind of pretty boy that would had his classmates swooning for a while, until the novelty passes. There were lots of pretty and talented kids at school, some of them trainees and a few already debuted idols. It’d be temporary.

“Soon they’ll be used to that thing on your face,” he assured him during the commute back home. “Your prettiness.”

Yibo looked distressed and tired.

The next day, when the teacher asked them to look for dance partners, he clasped Seungyoun’s arm. “It’s easier for us to practice,” they reasoned.

In the living room, in front of the big mirror they took borrowed from his parents’ room, they started to work on their angles and footwork, their moves and formations.

In the living room, Seungyoun saw Yibo dance seriously for the first time.

Seungyoun had no words to explain the way he danced.

♦

When people ask Seungyoun what his dream job is, he says “translation.”

Translation means to communicate in a certain language an equivalent something that was in another language.

A translator should have a full grasp of both languages and the skills to not only understand what is being said—or not said, hidden in the context, between words and smiles—, but also should be able to immerse themselves and fully understand the context, to be the most loyal and transparent possible to the original source—to find the right balance between the two, so it would be understandable and it would still project the whole meaning the original source has.

Seungyoun says _translation_ and he thinks it’s a particularly funny joke, especially because it’s not a joke.

Seungyoun has seen Yibo dance. And every time Seungyoun sees Yibo dance, he perceives smooth fluid lines, fire burning passion and silky sensuality. There’s also red, shimmering sand red, and a soft sea salt scent and warm happiness. There’s so much going on that it cages him in a _tourbillon_ of giddiness and bliss.

So he dreams to take all that—all the emotions, all the words sung and all the hidden meanings—and translate it into a complex beat that Yibo could dance to.

Greedy, isn’t he?

♦

Or, maybe, the most important (second most important?) thing was: Yibo didn’t like to sleep alone. He was easily scared and was a bit impressionable, which totally contradicted the cool city guy façade he gained at school.

He found out like this: their dance teacher asked them to do a full choreography on their own due by the end of semester and they chose a track with a fast beat and a strong bass that Nathan and Jimin, two of Seungyoun’s friends from the Applied Music Major, were composing last year. The same track that Seungyoun’s dad complained about, tired from work and unprompted migraines, so they had to migrate practice to their room.

They pulled the beds together in order to have more space to practice and then never bothered to pull them apart. Seungyoun still slept closer to the window—Seoul’s city lights like a wallpaper he had used to stare at until sleep overcame him—and Yibo still sometimes acted like he forgot to turn off the bedside lamp.

It wasn’t like Seungyoun didn’t know, actually. Yibo mentioned it in the passing once, “I can’t sleep alone in the dark” and shrugged, like he was just telling him what he wanted to snack on later.

“Aren’t you an only child too?”

“When I was a baby, I slept in the same room with grandpa.”

“You’re still a baby.”

What he did find out then was: Yibo was a clingy sleeper. He would start by hogging the blanket, then holding his hand to fall asleep, and then he would sometimes rest one of his legs on top of Seungyoun’s just for the sake of being annoying, maybe. Some nights Seungyoun woke up to the entirety of Yibo’s body hogging the space of _his_ bed, to the soft strands of hair tickling his nose, to a faint fresh exquisite scent surrounding him—like salt and water and wind blowing cool and summers spent eating unripe mangoes with salt by the beach, and yet classy like the expensive perfume of a cold city guy.

What he did really find out: Yibo was a clingy sleeper and Seungyoun didn’t mind. As long as Yibo was comfortable and felt safe, he didn’t mind at all.

Besides, he never cared about stuff like age hierarchy and personal space. No need to think about it twice.

One Sunday afternoon, they made driving their hyungs mad their goal. Since Yixuan was like the final boss, they started with Sungjoo. Singing Good Boy at the top of their lungs every time he tried to talk, even if they were in the middle of Hongdae, and pestering him into buying them pork ribs, and singing again when he tried to refuse, they quickly reached his boiling point.

Under his breath, Sungjoo complained and lamented about Seungyoun teaching cute Yibo his wicked ways.

“Didn’t we tell you, hyung? We are Leo Twins. We were born the same day.”

“Oh, my god. So there’s two of you,” Sungjoo groaned, with sinking horror. “Why do we keep hanging out with high schoolers, Xuan-ge?”

Seungyoun stuck his tongue out. “We are just here for your boyfriend, hyung. Yixuan-ge is way nicer and cooler than you, right?” he commented, a shit-eating grin in his face. Yibo nodded, solemn. “Right, Xuan-ge? You do are going to buy us pork ribs, right?” he asked with a thinner voice and a cute face. Meanwhile, Yibo blinked those large shimmering eyes of his.

With no resistance at all and an embarrassed smile, Yixuan melted and took out his wallet.

And they, without any shame, shared a victorious smirk and a fist bump.

Many weeks ago they had discovered two things: No matter the goal, they could achieve it when they worked in tandem. And Yixuan was the most fatherly guy in his twenties they’d ever known.

“So this is how it is, huh? You, spoiled Gangnam kids milking us dry?” Sungjoo commented after a sigh. Despite his words, he was checking the signs for a nice restaurant. “This is how capitalism works: the poor feeding the rich!”

“I don’t know. I’m Chinese,” a fifth voice said at their backs. When Seungyoun turned around, he spotted a guy around his height with handsome features and charming bunny smile. “Feed me too, Sungjoo-yah.”

Sungjoo gave the newcomer a stinky eye. Then he sighed a “fine” that had the guy clapping excitedly and swirling around in his own axis before heading towards the nearest restaurant. Seungyoun heard Yibo ask something in Chinese, but all Yixuan gave him was a hesitant smile.

Once they had settled on a table, the guy apologized with a small bow.

“I’m sorry I was late and I’m sorry I surprised you. Good thing I heard people singing and I could see you!”

Waving his hands, Seungyoun assured him it was fine, no need to worry, even if he had no idea of who the guy was.

“Yeah, it was _because_ you guys were singing that I couldn’t tell you,” Sungjoo said, something between a scold and a complaint. “This is Li Wenhan, an international student too! He’s here on a sport scholarship, tho.”

“Please take care of me,” Wenhan requested, a big awkward smile and practiced words—almost like Yibo had spoken months ago. Then Wenhan turned to his side and winked. “With ton of beer, Sungjoo-yah.”

Looking utterly done, Sungjoo sighed once more and stood up to order, muttering under his breath. Something along the line of needing to get himself new friends. Seungyoun would like to argue—beyond the fact that Sungjoo seemed to be auditioning only Chinese people for friends, he was doing amazing in the friendship department.

They ended up having fried chicken and beer, paid by Yixuan with the nearly non-existent salary from his internship. Officially, the high-schoolers had fried chicken and soda, but once Yixuan went to the bathroom, Seungyoun shamelessly did aegyo to Wenhan to distract him so he could steal Yixuan’s glass. Immediately, Yibo followed suit.

“You’re the coolest hyung,” was the only thing the youngest needed to say and Sungjoo melted right there. He allowed Yibo to sip from his glass as he complained about the unfairness of Yibo being that cute.

“As far as nobody tells the boyfriend, is fine,” Seungyoun tried to calm him down, yet started chuckling when the other rubbed the back of his neck, distressed.

“The boyfriend?” Wenhan repeated, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and pleasant surprise. “So you guys are okay with that here?”

Li Wehan was a weird guy—and, coming from Cho Seungyoun, that was saying a lot.

Sometimes he was so calm and almost shy, but then he made a full 180° turn and became overly confident and narcissistic, nearly crazy.

Seungyoun liked him. He was cool, really. The kind of person one learn to appreciate when you travel a lot and broaden your mind. Or, maybe, the kind of person that learnt to appreciate himself after travelling a lot and broadening his mind. Opening oneself up gets way easier with practice. Not that Seungyoun ever had that much of a problem with that, but Wenhan looked ready to run back to his shell from time to time.

And by the way he tended to mix English when he couldn’t say a Korean phrase, Wenhan had really travelled a lot. As a professional swimmer, he had trained in USA for three years and then competed in places like Australia, England and Spain.

“You went to London 2012?”

“Yeah,” Wenhan nodded. “As a spectator.”

A cool kind of weird, really. It became fun to wreak havoc between the five of them—or four of them, honestly; Yixuan was too nice for his own good—almost every weekend, mostly when the elder’s schedule was free.

As autumn started to paint the city in brownish leaves and golden hues, they had started to trade hanging out by the river for venturing around the colourful, buzzing streets and alleys of Insadong or mindlessly shopping in Myeongdong, joking and looking around in the big stores for warmer clothes.

“So, let me see if I got it right,” Wenhan said in English, as he tried on a Naruto headband. “You were training for professional soccer-- yeah, yeah, _football_ , but decided to do music instead. As in, composing and producing and stuff, right?”

Seungyoun winced slightly. “Basically, yes.” And then handed Yibo a white snapback with long Snoopy ears—it was _cute_ and it would look cuter on Yibo.

“Then why are you majoring in Dance, again?”

“Ah, that.” Yibo tried the Snoopy snapback on and, even with his blank face, he looked _extremely_ cute. “My friends used to tease me I was tone deaf and I was already used to physical practices, so I guessed it’d be easier to learn about beats and rhythms and music with a physical approach.”

Wenhan nodded slowly, eyebrows furrowed. “Right. Like I should try the singer approach because I’m already a swimmer, don’t I?”

With the headband tied around his neck, Wenhan dropped the subject there and padded towards the front of the store to pay. He looked hilarious, the fog emblem in metal and cheap nylon around his neck, as he tripped over the mannequins.

It eased the sudden pressure building in Seungyoun’s chest.

But not as much as:

“Buy me this,” Yibo asked and gestured towards the Snoopy snapback. Seungyoun chuckled and nodded—he was going to buy it definitely, but good to know he had Yibo’s approval. “And try the puppy headband. The puppy ears!”

“I don’t see any puppy ears?” he mumbled, confused, staring over the big table, full of trinkets.

A minute later, Yibo placed a plastic headband in his head, fluffy kitty ears sticking out of his hair.

“ _Aigoo_ , Shiba Chengyan!” Yibo laughed, almost turning the name into a curse. “Chengyan, Chengyan, my Shiba Chengyan. Don’t believe the teasing, you’re good at music.”

Seungyoun smiled. “Thanks, Yi—“

“Hush. Shibas don’t speak.”

By the time the winter break rolled around, it became painfully obvious that it was Yibo's first trip solo. And it wasn't something that could be helped with listening to mandopop songs or watching Happy Camp and Day Day Up on youtube. Neither n _ai lao_.

“It’s just… my mom said she’ll visit me if she could, but… Work got worse because of the Holiday season.”

Ah, the promise of parents. Seungyoun had been disappointed not to hear it from his own parents when he first left for Brazil, but soon he learnt that it hurt less than the numbing, tearing feeling that the unfulfilled promise leave behind. He had seen lots of teammates losing their hopes and motivation to even laze around in the beach as the time went on, coupling it with lashes of anger. He had seen them cry when their parents contacted them and Seungyoun had not known exactly what to do—awkward with language and age and his own estrangement.

So he circled Yibo’s shoulders with his arms and pushed him until they both fell tumbling into the bed. And then he just hugged him tightly, almost in a joint lock that made Yibo complain in loud shrieks.

Seungyoun then loosed up his grip. “It’s okay to miss them,” he assured him in a soft tone. “If you want, you can talk to me about them. Or China. Or teach me new swears I can call Wenhan-ge or Sungjoo hyung later.”

He also began caressing his temple and stroking his back in slow circling motions. It made Yibo stiffen for a moment, but Seungyoun still chose to keep on doing it—at least, until Yibo decide it was enough.

Yibo never pulled back that night.

Later that week, he vaguely told his parents when they asked why Yibo looked so down. It wasn’t a secret, after all, but it was something personal. Then his parents announced an impromptu trip to Hongcheon for the holidays.

“An escapade sounds nice, don’t you think?”

It was.

Both of them knew the snow, but they had never skied before. And they _sucked_. They ate snow and played around and did a long, epic snowball fight. Then Yibo decided to try snowboarding and he became actually good at it by the end of the third day, by the New Year’s Eve. Seungyoun tried too—but at some point, it was more enjoyable to watch the focused, decided expression of the other guy. Not nearly as enjoyable as the consequent big grin he had when he didn’t fall on his ass.

There was something about the freezing cold and snow that looked well on Yibo. Maybe it was the enormous white skiing suit, or the combination of fluffy red scarf and black beanie, or the faint flush in his cheeks and the reddening ears. Or maybe it was just the combo of his natural ethereal beauty and the scenery, enhanced by glittering Holiday lights. He looked elegant, noble, even more distinguished and otherworldly that he did on a daily basis, like some sort of Winter Royalty.

And Seungyoun—“Hey, I’m freezing my ass off. I’ll get us some hot choco and churros, okay?”

♦

His palms are sweaty. It will ruin the paper.

Maybe he should put it in his backpack. Or his pocket. Or drop it. Maybe he should drop all this altogether and go back to the safety of his room, where the air con will cool his mind.

Seoul in summer has always been fire hot, he tells himself. Like brazing red in any scale. Like the sheet of paper that slips from his fingers.

♦

Back to school, Seungyoun thought that they had dwelled back on some sort of normalcy—studying, practicing, hanging around the city, eating, sleeping together. Until February started and Seungyoun became painfully aware of how popular Yibo was.

As the month went on, he started to notice the selfie requests, invitations and confessions. He wondered if they had always been happening or if they had begun just then. He favoured the latter, because he was always there, by his side, and it would had been weird not to catch up on it, right?

But Sungjoo had called him a natural attention seeker more than once and oblivious more than twice, so maybe he confused attention towards Yibo as attention towards them both? Or maybe it was because Seungyoun was there, by his side, that they hadn't come close…

And, okay, woah, that hurt a bit, but Yibo had come to Korea to have the full Korean high school experience. It wouldn’t be fair to him for Seungyoun to hog all his time and deprive him of the possibilities of having more friends. Or, perhaps, a relationship.

Seungyoun should had given him some _me_ time.

When he mentioned it, Yibo frowned. “I don’t mind.”

It coincided with Nathan and Jimin renting a small cheap studio, so Seungyoun holed up there with them, playing with the machines and the mics. He was learning to compose, he was giving Yibo some space and he was still hanging out with the whole group on the weekends. It was okay.

“Soon we’ll be needing a guide singer,” he announced as they were strolling down Myengdong, jam-packed with couples and heart shaped decorations.

“Don’t even look at me,” Sungjoo refused, immediately. They had been playing around, taking ugly pictures of each other, and they may or may not had made Sungjoo the target of their bullying. “Unless you’re willing to pay me for the services and a compensation for the defamation done to my persona.”

Seungyoun stuck his tongue out. “Why would I ask you when _the boyfriend_ is here and he works in a company with actual singers?”

Behind them, Yixuan laughed, fond, and said he couldn’t promise that either. For some reason, Yibo became a bit more serious than usual, body stiffer and jaw slightly clenched.

“Maybe I could help!”

“Wenhan ge, you’re a swimmer,” Seungyoun chuckled. Then he slowed down his steps, adjusting himself to the other’s pace. “Something’s wrong, _Ippeo-yo_?”

Yibo halted, jaw even more clenched than before. “No. Something’s wrong with you, Chengyan?”

Seungyoun blinked and shook his head. “Peachy.”

Except that: neither of them were exactly fine.

It could have blown up in Seungyoun’s face—a majestic explosion, deep orange and brownish red and ceaseless disheartenment—when the night of the Sunday, lying in bed and listening to the city’s murmur and the soft jazz music of his father, Yibo commented, “Seonhee asked me to kiss her.”

Seungyoun held back a breath.

Everyone in the Dance major knew of Kim Seonhee—beautiful, talented, with the thinnest waist and the fullest lips of the whole student body. He had talked with her a few times and she was nice and quiet and humble; the kind of person everyone would dream to date. Rumours said she was set to debut in a big company group soon.

It didn’t blew up. It didn’t because Seungyoun being Seungyoun—young, sugar hyped, attentive Seungyoun—brushed the bubbling heaviness in his chest under the rug and then dumped a concoction of concrete and self-reassurance on it.

“And?” he asked and squeezed his hand. Then, “Woah, never thought that Wang Yibo is one to kiss and tell.”

“I’m not!” Yibo grumbled and kicked his leg. “I didn’t kiss her,” he confessed and left his leg there, on top of Seungyoun’s. It weighted, yet Seungyoun felt lighter. But then, “Maybe I should do it.”

He blew a raspberry against his temple just to annoy him, just because he wasn’t sure of what to do.

Maybe tell Yibo he should had really done it? It was part of the experiences one might had when traveling.

Seungyoun certainly had one—his first kiss. Under the brazing Brazilian sun, the scent of salt and pitahaya, the background sounds of waves and samba, with a beautiful girl named Bruna. It hadn’t been love, but it had been his first kiss, and an experience and he did cherish.

Yibo should had his—an anecdote to tell later, a memory to cherish, a young love. No matter that Seungyoun couldn’t even imagine Yibo’s fine, perfect lips against the full, rosy ones of Seonhee. Something in that picture felt wrong.

However, he realized the next day, Yibo could have done whatever he wanted. This exchange was _his_ own personal experience, not a mirror from Seungyoun’s. Neither a bucket list.

There was mail when they came back home the following week. A big envelope was placed on top of the counter and Yibo became notably excited when he noticed the red and yellow stamp and the calligraphy. He ripped the tape off in one go, checked the insides and started to laugh immediately, bright and cheery like a small kid.

“What? What is it?”

As an answer, Yibo showed him the two medium size red envelopes. Each one had a few big golden characters drawn in the front.

“You’re telling me nothing,” Seungyoun complained.

“You should learn _hanzi_ ,” Yibo then chastised him, like he wasn’t the one teaching Seungyoun the barely basics of Chinese. He had only learnt to say his name, to insult his hyungs and to order coffee by then. “It’s a _hongbao_. My grandpa sent it,” he explained, a mix of fondness and breeziness and shy nostalgia affecting his voice. “We have a tradition of giving money in red packets. To send good wishes and luck and good fortune in the New Year. The closer you are, the more you give.”

Seungyoun nodded, finally understanding. “Ah, yeah. We do something similar. In a white envelope, tho.”

Yibo raised an eyebrow, something between judgemental and sceptical. “But the red paper is the important. That’s what send the good wishes, not the—“ he cut himself with a guffaw when he opened the envelope. In the inside, there was a note and just one 50 yuan bill.

At some point, Yibo doubled his laughter and said something along the line of the shipping being more expensive than the gift, but it almost went amiss between his peals of laughter and his progressive broken Korean. When he finally started to breath evenly, his eyes were watering.

Seungyoun smiled, charmed of seeing this side of the other, of his culture, of his family. “But is not Lunar New Year yet.”

“He must have underestimated the Korean mail service,” Yibo commented, shrugging and biting back a smile. But he let it show right after as he was reading the note. “Look! He wrote _Gong xi fa cai, hong bao na lai!_ That’s like… kids say that. It’s a _Happy New year, give me a red packet now_.”

Ah, he understood now from whom Yibo got his gremlin-ness. The elder man he spent most time with, playing at thousand-years-old grottoes and sleeping in the same room.

“We should send some.”

Yibo’s eyes grew bigger. “Totally. I need red envelopes. I have to buy…” he muttered, probably thinking where the nearest bookstore was. “Oh, right. He sent this one for you.”

Faintly surprised, Seungyoun grabbed the other red packet. It was slim and probably had as little money as Yibo’s, but it made Seungyoun overly excited. In fact, he also had 50 yuan and a shorter note, a “ _thank you for taking care of my Bobo_ ” that Yibo translated to him over his shoulder.

A note he was grateful for and couldn’t help but treasure. A note he saved, alongside the red packet and Yibo’s address in the drawer of his bedside table.

At the end, Nathan and Jimin contacted a trainee to sing their guide. The name was Kim Wooseok and had a honey, caramel voice a bit too soothing for the melody his friends had created, but that suited quite well. The guy also called himself a _talented, face master_ , which was true, but Seungyoun preferred to name him a _selfie monster_.

“Seriously. It’s all the time selfie after selfie after selfie. And he comes out great in all, in every angle! It’s like _chak!_ Editorial whorty picture,” he told Yibo while they were taking a break from practice. Another dance project was due soon and it would be considered and graded as a preliminary performance for the Spring Showcase, so Seungyoun started to go home earlier from the studio. “He is _that_ photogenic. Meanwhile I look like a clown.”

“Mmn. You’re a clown.”

“Hey!” Seungyoun exclaimed in fake offense and pushed him. Didn’t care to deny, though. “But he’s a good singer, really. He doesn’t have the widest range, but he nailed the song. He even said sorry because he couldn’t reach one of those unreachable notes of Jimin. Besides, he’s like a tiny, petite kitty you see in those cat commercials. He’s going to do great, for sure.”

There was no real answer, just another nonchalant hum, and Seungyoun decided to drop the subject. It was late and they had been practicing for a few hours, so Yibo must had been tired. He must had wanted to shower and rest, but instead they were dancing because of Seungyoun’s schedule. And he was even humouring Seungyoun’s chattiness.

But then: “Can I go to the studio tomorrow?”

The following day, Yibo was nothing lesser than the perfect guest. He went to the studio by the afternoon, after one of his Korean language classes, and greeted them all with an adequate bow. He even brought Bubble Tea from a nearby Gongcha shop for everyone—mostly the safe, average Black Milk tea, but one Mango yogurt for Seungyoun—and gave his best opinion when Nathan and Jimin made him listen to the track. Great beat, easy to dance; he couldn’t understand the lyrics, sorry.

Then he sat on the cheap sofa and stayed silent, observing the way they went through the song again.

“Did I step on his foot and didn’t notice?” Wooseok asked Seungyoun when they were about to leave, in a hushed tone.

“Who, Yibo? Nah. He always has that resting cold stone bitch face around new people, so nothing personal. He said you did really well!”

Wooseok stared at him and snorted. “Definitely personal.”

Here’s a thing: Seungyoun was a touchy person. _Is_ a touchy person. Not the type that is irreverent and borderline outrageous, but the type that does skinship without thinking. An arm slung around the other’s shoulders, a pinch in the cheeks, a nonchalant caress.

He had almost no sense of personal space—some people think he was born without it, some people think he lost it along the way, in between the green fresh grass of Corinthians Paulista’s sport fields and the glittering landscape of Los Angeles. Either way, a very Seungyoun personality trait.

Maybe that was why Jimin pointed out: “He was hugging you.”

“Yeah, and? I hug people all the time.”

Jimin snorted. “Wang Yibo was the one hugging you. What else does he do? Hold your hand? Call you _oppa_?” Immediately, she shivered, like if the mere thought of referring to Seungyoun as an _oppa_ was horrifying.

Seungyoun chuckled because what else could he do? Even if she was a lady in everybody’s eyes, he knew she was actually a bit of a sarcastic bitch, but foremost she was one of his best friends and there was nothing more than well intended curiosity.

But she also went to a boarding school in Thailand for years and had talked on and on about all the _kathoey_ she befriended, the girls that confessed to her and the overall more open-minded society. Back in Korea, she used to rant about how they played blind eyes and ignored the hints to hold their appearances and perpetrate toxic, close-minded social conventions.

It was true, she was right about that, but what was she implying? Far-fetched, he was certain.

“Keep your panties on, Jimin-ah. We live together, I’m part of his host family. He even called us a word that… ah, what was it?” Seungyoun struggled to remember, the little grasp of Chinese he had vanishing from his mind. “But, you know, basically we are the Leo Twins.”

Jimin did a face. “Okay, thank you for making me feel like I suggested incest.”

Seungyoun laughed, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat.

By the time the Black Day arrived, spring was in full blossom in Seoul. The temperature had started to get warmer and it became a lot more enjoyable to roam around the streets and the parks, where the sweet scent of blooming flowers overcame the usual stink of pollution. Even if it was not during the weekend, their small group of international friends—as Wenhan once called it—met to eat jjajangmyeon and complain about their single-ness.

Black Day is for the sore losers that don’t have a relationship nor received chocolate on Valentines, Seungyoun reasoned and tried to kick Yixuan, Sungjoo and Yibo out. The latter for all the gifts he got back in February and that took him a week to finish; the first two didn’t need explanation.

Yibo tried to object, but he was overshadowed by Wenhan trying to single himself out saying he wasn’t a loser because he loved himself. That started a long argument tainted with teasing that continued until they finished their jjajangmyeon. Then they took a stroll through the longest trail of the Namsan Park, path lined by cherry blossoms, distilling elegance and a subtle sweet scent, until Yixuan suggested to go up the Namsan Tower.

It was up there, as they watched the view of a city decked in pink with some grey spots and glittering city lights, that Sungjoo hugged Seungyoun’s shoulders and dragged him over to the other side of the Roof Terrace, where the fence full of love padlocks was.

“Hey, Youn-ah. You should stop with these jokes about Xuan-ge and me being together,” he said, almost too nonchalantly to actually be nonchalant. Sungjoo wasn’t nonchalant. It was almost impossible for him to be nonchalant. “I don’t mind and I’m pretty sure that Xuan-ge don’t either, but you should be careful not to tell them so loud in public. Some people are…”

Seungyoun nodded, understanding.

Yeah, sure. Some people weren’t cool with that.

Then it came crashing on him. The reality. The hard, raw and saddening reality. Some people weren’t cool with that at all—they were close-minded and judgemental and some even were despicable. And just because Seungyoun was open-minded and relaxed and had long ago reasoned that what mattered were the emotions, the making the other feel good, the tolerance and respect rather than everything else, it didn’t mean other people think likewise.

Just because he and his friends were open-minded, it didn’t mean that everyone shared his same values.

“Besides, Yixuan ge fancies a girl at our school.”

Seungyoun turned his head so quickly it almost gave him whiplash. There was a faint smile in Sungjoo’s lips as his gaze fleeted towards a couple near them. A couple, locking a love padlock, in Black Day. The irony.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, hyung. Are you sure you didn’t mind?”

Sungjoo shrugged and his smile faltered. “Deep, deep down, I did. But for different reasons.”

When they came back to the rest of the group, the others were talking in Chinese. Upon seeing them, Wenhan switched back to Korean and tried to convince them of trying speed-dating. They took many, many dumb selfies instead.

The month of May brought many, many emotions and most of them were in the spectrum of nervousness. Their choreography was graded with a very good note—kind of expected given that Wang Yibo was his partner and that they had practised for long, long hours—that not only made his parents proud, but also gave them a golden ticket to the Spring Showcase.

So it led to even more and more hours of practise, because Yibo was a perfectionist, and Seungyoun was another too. Consequently, he gradually ceased going to the studio for the meantime. Instead, he rented a small cheap dance room with Yibo, so his dad would stop being a victim of headaches during the following weeks.

They started with the motivation that good grades and serotonin give to anyone, celebrating with _nai lao_ and Mango Yogurt bubble tea. But as the days went by, the nervousness started to kick in, followed by their hawk-eyed attention to detail. Nothing was perfect, so they quickly changed the sweet drinks for water and caffeine. Nevertheless, they were of the finest and most gratifying moments for Seungyoun.

There was never time to be bored when he was with Yibo. Not only because he was quick-witted and always on board to whatever joke or game Seungyoun suggested, but also because seeing him dance was enjoyable in itself.

Seugyoun betted that he could never get tired of seeing him dance.

At some point in Beijing, Yibo fell in love with dancing and made it his. He grew up learning to dance and got shaped by it, but he also shaped dancing. He gave it his own vibe, his own style, and made it authentic and so, so compelling. Sharp and a bit _brusque_ , yet extremely fluid. It appeared to be loud and vibrant, but it hid deeper emotions that he sometimes allowed people to see through his moves or charismatics expressions.

His dance was Beijing and Luoyang and mostly Yibo. 

At his side, Seungyoun lost a bit of confidence.

“Don’t. You’re good, Chengyan. Much more than good. I just got a bit more of practice.”

“Yeah, if I had danced instead of playing football, I guess I’ll be at your level by now.”

“But you’ll never be at my level. I’m at out-of-this-world level,” Yibo joked.

A joke that tasted more like truth than a joke.

And Seungyoun wasn’t the only one who thought that.

The whole Dance Department and the whole crowd at the Spring Showcase considered it, judging by the way the public erupted in loud cheering. Applause followed the final move of their performance and some people even stood up when they—when Yibo, especially when Yibo—bowed down.

It was what he and his talent and hard-work deserved. Seungyoun couldn’t help but applaud along as well.

After the showcase ended, they saw Jimin breaking through the crowd, overly excited not only by their performance, but also because of the great reception her and Nathan’s track got. She was accompanied by Kim Wooseok, looking unbothered and calm even if the crowd tried to engulf him. He was holding two plastic flowers that he probably stole from one of the performer’s props.

“You guys did great,” he said in lieu of a greeting. Then he turned to the side, looking thoroughly impressed. “Especially you, Yibo-ssi. You’re a natural. Don’t you want to train with me? My company is debuting a group in a few months and I’m sure you’d be selected.”

Yibo smirked, some embarrassment reddening his ears, and shook his head.

“Hey, what about me?” Seungyoun asked in a joking manner. A silly way of diverting the attention from the topic that was becoming more and more annoying for Yibo after the many intents of scouting him out. “I could be in the debuting team too!”

“You… The company will be debuting another group in four years,” Wooseok blurted with an almost blank face, except by the playful glint in his eyes. As any good friend, Jimin laughed loudly.

Seungyoun gaped. “Hey! If I picked out dance earlier, I’d be in the debuting team by now!”

“Don’t be dumb,” Wooseok said as he patted his shoulder. They fell into the easy talk people have when they see each other way too many times to be mere acquaintances. And yet, they could count the times with the fingers of one hand. “You’ll still be stuck training in the basement with me.”

Far from taking offense, Seungyoun played along. “Quickly! When can I audition?”

Standing tall but still looking petite next to Yibo, Jimin groaned. “If you get the hell out of my studio, tomorrow morning.”

“No such luck, Jimin-ah,” Seungyoun laughed. Then he noticed Yibo staring at him—something devastating in his gaze, something that may had been dipping into the waters of puzzling and indignation.

The remnants of the stage—adrenaline and serotonin, applauses and tight congratulatory hugs—didn’t fade out during the following days nor deep into the night. His parents took them to a fancy restaurant the day of the showcase, meanwhile Sungjoo complained over _tteokbokki_ about their bragging and about school not letting him go see them live. Next to him, Yixuan and Wenhan watched the shaky video Jimin filmed, fond and impressed expressions on.

Yibo was a bit cooler about it—Yibo was always a bit cooler, a ton cooler than him—and quieter than usual. A bit off, even. Or maybe Seungyoun was just too hyper and loud, overshadowing him. So he tried to subdue himself and questioned if something was wrong.

When they were lying in bed, cladded in cute pyjama pants and old shirts, fully awake and watching a Running Man episode with lots of guests on Seungyoun’s laptop, Yibo finally broke his own ice.

During commercial break, he asked, “Do you really want to be an idol?”

And Seungyoun set his laptop aside and turned completely towards the other. “Maybe? I’ve never really thought about it until I was on stage. I guess hyung is right and I am a bit of an attention whore, after all. Don’t tell him, tho.”

“So are you gonna do it? Train with Kim Wooseok?”

There, just the two of them, shielded by the sheets and the far noises of the city in the deep night, Seungyoun let himself be brutally honest. “I have no idea. I assumed that I knew what I wanted to do, I _convinced_ myself that I knew, but then I saw you dance and _puff._ I thought of something else. And then we danced together on that stage and again… I’m just not sure anymore. I just know that music is involved.”

All the jumbled thoughts, all the bubbling emotions—they were all there, loud and pushy like a huge crowd, terrifying and exciting like amusement rides. Truth was: Seungyoun wasn’t completely in the dark, but seated in front of the setting sun, the once blue sky painted with orange and pinkish clouds, not yet red, not yet black. And he was decided to hold on to that sun, to follow it, to not let it set.

But then Yibo came and somehow it turned red. Red, red, brightness and red. Because: wasn’t it curious that after staring directly at the sun for too long, you started to feel dizzy, and funny and started seeing reddish spots on every surface?

“Why did you drop football?” Yibo asked, instead. A different approach. Maybe the right one. “Nostalgia?”

Seungyoun pulled out his lips, a small duck face, as he pondered on it. Yibo must had found it funny, because he casted small gazes to it until Seungyoun relaxed his expression and shook his head.

“I will tell you a secret, Ippeo-yo,” he announced. Then he lowered his voice to a volume barely above a whisper. “I like when people feel good. I want to make people feel good.”

Football didn’t do that sometimes. Football was energetic and challenging, adrenaline and serotonin rushes, empowering. But sometimes football was mixed with anger and disappointed and jeers. Sometimes people were happy only for a brief moment.

And Seungyoun liked happy people. Seungyoun liked to run through the beach, the booming sound of the waves in the background and the smell of sea salt, or roam through the packed streets, the murmur of the crowd and the taste of a mango flavoured drink. And Seungyoun liked challenges.

He then realized that music had always been a comfort.

Yibo let a shaky breath out. “You want to make people feel good,” he repeated, some hints of awe in his voice. He closed and opened his mouth, lips twitching for a second. Seungyoun didn’t fully grasped why, but he had the sudden urge to squeeze him. “You’re already doing it great, Youn-ah. And as an idol…too. You’d do great. You…too smiley.”

A stream of chortles escaped his mouth, maybe proving Yibo right. He could be a good idol. But at what cost?

Nevertheless, Yibo’s trust felt good. The kind of comfort he would like to ignite in people.

When June arrived, they took a flight to Jeju-do. They intended on a road trip in the beginning, but there wasn’t much a couple of highs schoolers could do and then Wenhan rushed them all to the airport. He wanted to see both the sunset and the sunrise at the known ‘ _Hawaii of Korea’_ , as well as the Lava Tunnel and swim in the sea. And maybe come back to Busan by ferry, walk around the ‘ _Korea’s Santorini_ ’ Village and hop in in the next KTX back to Seoul. All that in one night, two days.

It was crazy. Seungyoun went aboard without thinking.

But it felt too much like a bucket list and Yixuan didn’t contain his suspiciousness.

“My scholarship is about to end,” Wenhan announced at some point of the flight. “But I got some love calls, so I won’t have a lot of free time.” He kept talking about scouters from New Zealand and China, and the possibility of taking a second major.

What fire-engraved in Seungyoun’s mind was that Wenhan was leaving. June had already arrived, the scholar year was about to end, and Wenhan was leaving. Time was a constant, unstoppable thing and the moment that Wenhan had to pack his luggage and leave for the next adventure, the next experience, had arrived.

Sungjoo didn’t seem to be that surprised—that traitor—as he petted Yibo’s hair and talked to his ear. Yixuan, on the other side, had droopy eyes and a tender, sympathetic air.

As soon as they arrived, Yixuan rented a car and they asked their way towards the Lava Tunnels. The caves were a wonder and Seungyoun had his eyes wide open every time they came across a lava stalagmite. Wenhan and Yibo enjoyed it like small children, even if they sometimes complained about the darkness and clutched the wrists of whoever was near for safety.

Then they drove past the villages to the see the Waterfalls, stopping now and then for snacks and bathroom runs. Seungyoun named himself the one in charge of the music, even if Wenhan was the one on co-pilot seat, and blasted hip hop songs that soon got them singing at the top of their lungs. The moment they were shushed by an old lady, they decided it was time to go to their next stop.

There was some people kitesurfing in Jungmun beach and they were all of the _I see it, I want it, I got it_ mentality, so they rented equipment and laughed loudly as each and every one of them failed miserably. They only calmed down when the air became breezy and chill as the emerald water became colder. Then, they drove to another beach, Hyeojae Beach, to watch the white sand turning gold as the sky was smearing with lilac and cherry pink hues.

_Breath-taking_.

It sank on Seungyoun, a little too fast too soon, that it was the first and possibly the last sunset they’d see all together.

Because this was Wenhan’s bucket list, they went for abalone porridge and ditched lodgings in favour of staying up all night. They could take naps in the car, they reasoned.

“Yixuan ge, if they were drowning and you could only save one,” Seungyoun started, around midnight, “who would you save? Sungjoo or your girlfriend?”

Yixuan frowned. From his expression, it was clear he knew he was going to be target of bullying. “Sungjoo.”

“That’s why you don’t have a girlfriend, Xuan-ge,” Sungjoo asserted, almost in groan. “You’re saying this out of compromise. You have to follow your heart.”

“Let’s go again: Yixuan-ge, if they were drowning and you could only save one, who would you save? Sungjoo or your girlfriend?”

“My girlfriend.”

Cuddled between Seungyoun and Yixuan, Yibo piped in, “And leave Sungjoo hyung to die? What a friend!”

Yixuan shook his head, defeated. “Sungjoo, who would you save: Seungyoun or Yibo?”

“That’s ruthless and I can’t believe that _you_ would make me pick between them like this,” Sungjoo bawled. “But Seungyounie. He owes me five thousand won worth in meals and I plan on reclaim it.”

Seungyoun nodded and clapped, satisfied. “That’s my hyung! Giving real, honest answers.”

At his side, he felt Yibo’s body becoming stiffer and smaller. Perhaps he was cold. Even if it was June, Seungyoun had told him to bring a warmer coat than the jacket he was wearing, but it fell on deaf ears. He got closer and hugged his shoulders with one arm, almost wrapping him inside of his padding coat. A _Yi-borrito_ , he called it.

“Hey, Chengyan. Me or Wooseok?”

Startled, Seungyoun blinked. _What_.

But he was saved by Wenhan’s loud and tired squeal. “Why no one saves _me_?”

Seungyoun smiled, grateful and amused. “Because you’re a swimmer, ge. You’ll save yourself and then will save us all.”

“Damn right. If it wasn’t for me, the four of you would be drowning in your constipated feels, for sure.”

Just because of that, they forced Wenhan to swim in the midnight ocean. Only was allowed to come out when he yelled he was freezing his balls off. Wenhan was sulking and trembling the moment he was back on the beach, hastily drying himself up with the almost soaked towel he had used after kiteboarding. However, his mood changed soon after Seungyoun gave him his padding coat.

Before driving off to watch the sunrise at the Mt. Hallasan, they built a big and lopsided sandcastle—the best they could do with their bare hands. With a shell emblem, a seagull feather as flag and five towers, each one with their initials scribbled in the white sand walls. It was formidable; majestic. Once they finished it, they took an awful lot of _selfies_ with it.

An ephemeral but lasting memory of their last hang out together.

At the train station, they waved Wenhan goodbye for the last time. Just for some time, Wenhan assured them; for some long, long time, Seungyoun thought. He had had many friendships like this, made overseas, made for less than a year, so he knew the drill.

“I see you thinking. Stop thinking,” Wenhan demanded when it was his turn to hug goodbye. “I know where you live, I have your phone number _and_ your IG. We’ll be in contact. People love to contact me. And I’d like to have updates on you and Yibo.”

“Updates?”

Wenhan rolled his eyes and groaned, like he was talking to the dumbest person in the planet and he couldn’t bare it anymore. It was a bit exaggerated for Seungyoun’s liking, but that’s how Wenhan was—dumb #1 of their group of friends.

“Please, not you too, dude,” he pleaded in fluid English. “Stop dancing around each other, it was painful to watch!”

Seungyoun wrinkled his nose. “But we dance together?” he replied just for the sake of being annoying, just to see the other look like a mad bunny, just because he had no idea of what to say.

“Ugh, just pay attention to your _doki doki_ ,” Wenhan said before giving him a last squeeze.

And that was the last thing he heard from Li Wenhan’s mouth before he left Korea for China, or maybe New Zealand. Something that was meant to be an advice, but sounded like the biggest bet that Seungyoun would ever do—he wasn’t sure why, but it sounded like an all-in kind of gamble. Win a lot, lose a lot.

It also reminded him that it was June already.

Here’s another thing that happened on June:

It was by the end of spring, when the nights become hotter and hotter and they start to daydream about swimming in pools and picnics by the river during classes. One night, they found the link to a rated movie and, in the greater good of healthy curiosity, they played it. A lame movie with a shitty plot to excuse the amount of sex scenes. But still, it made heat coil in the base of his belly and a flush creep up his neck.

It wasn’t like he had never seen porn. Or like Wang Yibo hadn’t either, for sure. Illegal as it was for them, curiosity and arousal are human traits. Yet it had always been on his own, when his parents were out in a work party or were in deep sleep and he wore earphones. Not like this.

At that moment, he became hyperaware of the person seating by his side—the warm proximity, the slower breathing, the goose bumps, the flushed cheeks, the sparkling eyes. Yibo looked even more devastating beautiful and Seungyoun feared that the image would become a recurrent, tormenting thought.

They stopped the movie midway, when the actor on screen was forcing himself over the actress, the atmosphere dense and awkward.

“That’s not how you treat a woman,” Seungyoun commented, voice slightly croaky but filled with disgust, a frown etched to his face. “Or any person, by that matter.”

Yibo fake coughed to clear his throat, not really subtle. “Have you ever…?” he started, voice weak yet hoarse, similar to when he woke up in the mornings for school. Oh, Lord. Yibo’s morning voice. From then, it had been etched—a thought that Seungyoun was sure was going to torment him every morning. “You know. With someone?”

Avoiding his eyes, Seungyoun shook his head and stood up. “No. But if I’m… when I’ll be with someone, I’m going to make sure they feel loved,” he assured. The vague memory of Bruna and their first chaste kiss, barely lips on lips, came to his mind. He had asked a few times if she was sure and nearly missed his chance out of nervousness. This time, he almost missed the sharp inhale the other boy took, masked under a hum of agreement. “Hey, need something before sleeping? A glass of water, an ice pack, some me time in the bathroom?” he teased with greasy wink to ease the atmosphere. He barely avoided the kick from Yibo gave him in retaliation.

But if he had been hyperaware of the other boy when they were sitting side by side, lying in bed together, Seungyoun felt intoxicated. The warmth of the body, that scent akin to luxurious perfume and sea waves, the almost inaudible sounds of his breathing. He made sure not to cuddle that night, overwhelmed by the closeness in such a small distance.

Seungyoun tried and tried to fall fast asleep that night, yet a ghost feeling akin to fingers trailing down his back kept him alert and with reddened ears. When he turned around, Yibo was in deep sleep, hogging all the blanket.

By general rule, the last day of school should be one of the best days of the scholar year—after the teachers' wishes of a good summer, it should only be sweet summer days spent lazing around and complaining about the heat.

Not for Seungyoun. Their last school day went like that, but Seungyoun suffered deep down. It was an alarming sign that time was constant and unstoppable, that the days went on and on, that Yibo soon would be leaving and returning to his home.

He would like to argue that his house was now Yibo’s home too, but he had travelled enough to know that one could have many, many homes around the world, but there was always one that mattered more over the rest. And Yibo hadn’t say it in Korean, but he had been chatting with his family over the phone and his tone was the tone of someone that was happy and nostalgic at the same time.

So, if he had already made his mind about spending every remaining day with Yibo, then he reaffirmed his decision of enjoying every moment with him like it was the last.

That included the goodbye party their Department threw in his honour. Over thirty teens crowding a big _noraebang_ room, packed with food and sodas and a few smuggled beers.

Seungyoun sat there; drinking and laughing and participating the necessary, trying not to steal the spotlight from Yibo, trying not to steal Yibo from the crowd.

As the hours passed, more and more people started to tell Yibo that they were going to miss him, and every time Seungyoun couldn’t help but nod slightly in agreement. But the last straw was when Kim Seonhee got closer and said, “I’m going to miss you, Yibo-yah. You became important to me.”

Seungyoun wanted to scream and agree, scream and disagree. What did Kim Seonhee know about missing and importance? What did they know?

Sure, they all had seen Yibo every weekday at school for eight hours, but Seungyoun was the one that had seen him _every day_ , from the moment he woke up with his dishevelled hair and morning husky voice, to the moment he fell asleep, legs toppled over his.

Seungyoun was the one that will have to learn to eat breakfast alone again, and to sing along songs alone, and to annoy his hyungs alone, and to wait for a subbed version of Day Day Up episodes because he became a fan of the show even if he needed a full time translator next to him.

Seungyoun was the one that wasn’t going to have anyone to hug to sleep, to look the way they dance in awe, to call _Ippeo-yo_.

Yeah, sure, Kim Seonhee will miss Yibo, but Kim Seonhee only asked Yibo to kiss her. And it didn’t matter if they kissed or not; at the end, Kim Seonhee will never miss Yibo as much as Seungyoun was going to do.

(He was lying, though. It mattered. Sometimes, the question itched so much, it irked him. However, it wasn’t his place to pry.

The picture of Yibo and Seonhee still seemed off to him.)

Late at night, Seungyoun listened to his heart. He listened, payed attention, and the melody threw him off his axis. Freaking scared him. It could become the most beautiful fast beat track of his life, but it scared him.

Because it was _Yibo_. A guy. A guy his family was hosting.

More than afraid, Seungyoun was distressed. He didn’t know what Yibo could think. He didn’t know what Yibo could _feel_ about men loving men. He didn’t know what Yibo could, _would_ feel about him if he knew.

He was from China. Seungyoun had never gone to China. Seungyoun had no idea how it was in China.

It wasn’t like Seungyoun cared about cultural differences. Seungyoun was okay with differences. He had to learn to open his mind to differences.

He went to study to Brazil for two years, then travelled some more through South America, to countries like Paraguay and Argentina. Then he flew directly to Los Angeles for two weeks and, at his comeback, he went to the Phillipines to study for another year. So it was okay to say that Seungyoun learnt to accept cultural differences. He had enjoyed them and engrained into his mind and personality and day-by-day.

He had learned Portuguese, words of Spanish, and then English plus some Tagalog. And now he was learning Chinese. So Seungyuon was really, really okay with differences—beliefs and values.

He wasn’t really sure if Yibo was.

It was Yibo’s first trip abroad, after all. He’d only lived in China and Korea, and let’s be honest: Korean society didn’t shine for being supportive and open-minded, exactly.

“He was okay when I joked about _the boyfriends_ ,” he reminded himself in a whisper, so he wouldn’t wake up the other guy. He had been okay with it, so he must be okay with LGBT+ people in general—

It didn’t mean he could be one, though.

But, maybe, the most devastating thing of all was: they were Leo Twins.

Yibo had come to Korea expecting a brother, just like Seungyoun had expected one almost a year ago. Yibo must had expected a brother and even called _twins_ in Chinese the moment they found out they shared birthdays.

Seungyoun’s greediness shouldn’t break that.

The following days were…bizarre, to say the least.

He felt like his heart skipped beats in the weirdest moments. Like when his mom was trying to pamper Yibo with food and body lotions that Yibo would never use, yet was too nice to refuse. Like when Yibo would translate in his ear the conversations going on on Day Day Up or when Seungyoun himself could catch a few words. Like when his father asked Yibo if he had bought his flight ticket already.

(Especially when his father asked if he had bought his flight ticket and Yibo said yes. Especially when his mother whimpered a “Can’t you change the date? It’d be awesome to celebrate yours and Seungyounie’s birthday together.”

That moment his heart didn’t beat. That moment his heart was paused, immovable. Maybe because he wasn’t breathing.)

But when his heart skipped the most beats until the point of Seungyoun thinking he was having a failure, was when they went to the Waterbomb Festival.

It had been Seungyoun’s idea since he heard Yixuan talk about the preparatives for a new kind of show. Since he knew it involved live music, big stages, big water guns and a whole stadium as an arena. They could dance and enjoy the performances and play around and annoy people.

And when he had introduced the idea to Yibo, he was totally in. Just like the rest of his group. A water fight based festival to blast away the impending summer heat? Sounded _great_.

And it was great, amazing, extremely funny, but Seungyoun hadn’t had thought it through.

Because there was water and Yibo. And Yibo dripping water under the strobing lights, laughing happily as he attacked Yixuan by the back, looking ethereal and impressive. And then there was Yibo, dripping water and freestyling, moving fluid like water and precise like a projectile, appealing the attention and cheers of the public around them.

And then there was Yibo, dripping water and staring right at him, focused. “Chengyan? Are you okay?”

Seungyoun was totally not okay. They were again in the merciless fire hot summer of Seoul, Sungjoo had almost lost his tickets, and Yibo was leaving in less than a week.

It was summer and, for a moment, Seungyoun feared to be forever stuck in summer. And then he wished to be forever stuck in summer, reviving this day again and again, with Yibo looking at him through his long dark eyelashes and his eyes glimmering with happiness and mischief.

“Peachy.”

“I don’t believe you,” Yibo replied, squinting his eyes and getting closer. The closer he got, the more obvious it was that Yibo’s white shirt was now becoming transparent, showcasing his lean, alluring body—his collarbones, his nipples, his soft tummy.

_Lord_. There was water everywhere, yet Seungyoun was thirsty.

Seungyoun suddenly shivered. Fingertips were stroking his hand and trailing up his arm, feather touch, unmistakable.

“Tell me,” Yibo commanded in his deep husky morning voice. Seungyoun inhaled sharp, mouth agape, and—

And long stream of water hit him right in the face.

“That’s foul play!” Seungyoun shrieked and coughed as Yibo’s loud gremlin guffaws overshadowed the hard EDM music.

Seungyoun felt betrayed, played, and somehow relieved. Insatiable and bouncy, too.

Vowing to get vendetta, he recruited Sungjoo and Yixuan to bring the worst torture upon Yibo: affection.

They spent the last set of DJ Koo running behind Yibo, spreading water and their love all over the field. Some people looked at them weirdly, but they didn’t care. They hugged Yibo every chance they got and pecked his face just for the kicks, just to annoy him and to listen to him scream for mercy.

If Seungyoun planted a kiss in his cheek—near his lips, way too near those perfect glossy lips—, no one say anything. Maybe they didn’t notice. Maybe Seungyoun had been sneaky enough. Yibo certainly didn’t show any reaction further than his dramatic pleads of mercy.

But Seungyoun now had new relevant information—Yibo’s skin was smooth and tasted like salty water and summer haze.

No matter how much he tried to change it, time was constant and unstoppable.

Seungyoun found himself liking airports no longer. Airports were enormous, too clean boxes of concrete and glass that stood out like obnoxious sore thumbs. People was always tired and fidgety in them, alternating their attention between the flights being announced through the screens, their phones and their companions.

Seungyoun was fidgety. And distressed and utterly sad. A few screams, a few pleads, were stuck in his throat— _don’t go, please stay, I like you, and I think I like too much, who am I going to dance with_ —, but he didn’t intend to release them. Instead, he chatted on and on about the things Yibo should do upon arriving in Beijing. Or the things he should do when he came back to Seoul, if he ever does.

Please, comeback soon, he strongly pleaded, but didn’t voice out.

The only thing he allowed himself to do was to hug him. And boy, he did hug him. Tightly, circling his arms around his small waist and hiding his face on his broad shoulders—hiding his teary eyes and his abused lips, chapped after being nibbled on since the morning.

“I’m going to miss you so much, Ippeo-yo,” he confessed, voice thin and shaky.

“Me too, Youn-ah,” he whispered back. Yibo squeezed him once more and tried to detangle Seungyoun from him, pulling apart. “I… I have something for you.”

Surprised and interested, Seungyoun watched him rummage his backpack. Seconds later, he took out a red envelope with golden characters on the front that spiked his curiosity up, but also made him chuckle softly. Even when his face was composed, Yibo’s eyes were shinning with an emotion Seungyoun wasn’t able to pinpoint.

Yibo gave him the envelope with both hands and Seungyoun received the same way as he muttered, “Thanks.”

Seemed like it had only one paper inside. A note or a bill, probably. Curious, Seungyoun tried to rip it open.

“Don’t!” Yibo stopped him, eyebrows furrowed and almost anxious expression. “It’s impolite to open a red packet in front of who gave it to you.”

“But, _Ippeo-yo_ …”

A mechanical voice through the speakers announced the Incheon to Beijing flight was soon to depart and Seungyoun took a sharp intake. No, no, no, _no_.

Yibo bowed almost 90° down to his parents, to him.

“Thank you for everything.”

And he left.

♦

His palms are sweaty. He would like to blame Beijing’s summer, humid and scorching hot, yet he’s awfully aware of the anxiety kicking in.

One might think this is normal, hardly different to all the other times he did it, so he should be used to it by now. And yet—

His palms are sweaty.

♦

Back in his house, Seungyoun found everything different, ashen, disproportionate. His small room felt bigger, there was way too much space in the beds and he’d never noticed how few snapbacks he actually had. It smelled different too—like the air purifier his mother bought him during the last holiday shopping sale.

But, more important, it sounded… silent. No beats, no background music, no weird rhythm, no second breathing. No comfort.

It was like Seungyoun’s sky had no longer a sun. It had set already and took all the orange and blue and red with him.

He was being dramatic, maybe. He still had his ideas and convictions; it was just that he felt numb and open wide at the same time, disheartened.

Truth was: Seungyoun wanted to pursue music because he likes to make people feel good.

Truth also was: Seungyoun was a person that gets attached too easily. He had learnt the process of packing, but never unpacking. The more he travelled, the more attached he had become to many, many places and its people. But music. Music was a way of travelling, of settling whenever he wanted, without really settling in. Without attaching.

(But then his parents brought this exchange kid and Seungyoun lost a match playing as host. 

Yibo came to Seoul and Seungyoun grew attached, grew horribly and beautifully attached. And more than that—in love. )

He ripped the red packet open, eager and curious and a bit exalted, and almost teared apart the 10 yuan bill. He smirked at the stinginess, but it wasn’t like he would really need yuan soon.

The other paper was a letter. His breathing spiked and his hands trembled slightly as he opened it. Then his stomach sank. He looked at the paper for a long moment, dumbfounded.

Seungyoun took his phone and fired a quick text. _It’s in Chinese._

The reply pinged late into the night. _Learn hanzi._

Seungyoun pouted. He wasn’t patient.

♦

He takes a taxi and gives the address that has treasured since he has learnt about _hongbao_ and good wishes. He’s pretty sure he’s being scammed, but it doesn’t matter, because nervousness is kicking in, alongside some kind of fizzy excitement. He has a good feeling about this, a great feeling actually, so he becomes hyperactive. Impatient.

As soon as the taxi driver gives him the change, he runs up to the entrance of the building. His legs are bouncy, _he_ is bouncy, and the time until the doorknob moves seems to last forever.

Behind the door there’s an old man, white hair and playful glint in his eyes, that raises an eyebrow, expectant.

Seungyoun hesitates for a moment, trying to put together a phrase in Chinese. He gives up quite quickly and just asks, “Wang Yibo?”

The man squints his eyes and gets a bit closer, gesturing for him to say it again. Seungyoun repeats the name twice, stuttering a little and each time louder than before. He ends up screaming the name and the man crackles a smile, almost proud.

“Seungyoun-ah? Is it you?” he hears the faint deep voice and the sound of steps coming closer. Seungyoun holds his breath. When Wang Yibo finally appears, his eyes seems rounder and filled with astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

Seungyoun breaks into a big grin, slightly awkward. “Happy birthday? Ah, maybe I should have brought a cake.”

Amused and still a little astounded, Yibo shakes his head and steps aside to let him come in. He also has a conversation in Chinese with the old man. Seungyoun doesn’t catch anything at all, but he does notice that it was in a hushed tone.

Oh, Lord. So that is Yibo’s grandpa. The original gremlin.

He waits in the living room as asked and bows many times to the woman that tries to engage him in a conversation. Now Seungyoun is ashamed of not understanding a single word nor being able to remember how to say a simple phrase like _I don’t speak Chinese_. That only motivates him further on his decision of learning the language.

After a few minutes, Yibo comes back from the kitchen, a tray with two cups of _nai lao_ and a big piece of chocolate cake in his hands. Then, he leads him across the apartment to a smaller room; Yibo’s room. So different from Seungyoun’s and so similar at the same time.

Perhaps the biggest difference is that Yibo’s room has Yibo and Seungyoun’s room no longer has him.

“I came to China for this,” he says and shows the letter Yibo gave him. The paper is slightly crumpled, consequences of putting it in his pocket one time too many and of reading it over and over again, almost like he wanted to memorize characters he doesn’t understand. “I came because of this. I came to apologize.”

“Apologize?” the other repeats and blinks, impassive. Then he snorts, small hints of hurt as he speaks, “No need to come all the way to China to apologize.”

“ _Apologize,”_ Seungyoun emphasizes, “because I was obvious and dumb and slow. And because I misinterpreted that word. You… _Zhiji_ is such a beautiful word. It has such a beautiful meaning and I’m learning it just now. And I’m sorry if I put you through…” Seungyoun goes quiet for a moment. The words are slipping out of his mouth like he has no filter at all; one after another, like an open faucet. “You should have told me, Yibo-yah.”

The other stiffens for a moment and avoids his gaze. In a murmur, he confesses, “I didn’t know how. I wasn’t sure that…”

“Yeah, me too,” Seungyoun blurts, a blooming smile in his lips.

It’s nice to see Yibo like this. Shorts, tank top, faint flush and at a loss of words. He had gotten used to his wittiness, even when he barely could speak the language, and to his ever present but well disguised playful tone.

It’s nice, more than nice, seeing Yibo. Otherworldly beauty, big sparkling eyes and enticing body. The faint scent of expensive perfume, of personal sun and salt and freshness, is everywhere in the room, intoxicating, and Seungyoun wouldn’t want to leave. He wants to stay and hug Yibo, caress his temple and kiss his long neck. Kiss his wide shoulders too, and the nose and his cheeks. Especially in that spot he reclaimed as his during the festival.

“I also brought you something,” he says instead. From his pocket, Seungyoun takes out a red envelope, crumpled by his nervousness. Yibo receives it with both hands and rampant interest. “It’s my first track. My first composition ever. It’s… actually is like a _beta demo_? I don’t know. But it’s mine and I…I really wish you would dance to it. _I hope_ you dance it.”

Suspicious, Yibo looks against the light, trying to discern what is inside. He doesn’t seem disappointed when he realizes it’s only an USB.

“Is Kim Wooseok in it?”

Chuckling, Seungyoun shakes his head. “Just me. And you, because I made it thinking on you.”

Yibo stands up and closes the distance between them, between the desk where he was sitting and the bed. Then he throws himself on top of Seungyoun, sitting with absolutely no grace in his lap—which should be a disgrace coming from a dancer like him, but it’s absolutely charming coming from _him_.

“Just you and me?” Yibo repeats.

Seungyoun nods, intoxicated by the scent, the warmth of his skin—and he’s showing, _oh_ , so much skin—and the possibility of hugging him again. He wants to nuzzle his neck and blow a raspberry against his temple, and cuddle together to sleep, no matter that it’s almost unbearable hot and that his skin is burning where they are touching.

Beyond his nerves, his voice doesn’t waver when he says, “I like you too, _Ippeo-yo_. I’d also dare to even call it love,” he quotes, a fair paraphrase from the translation that Yixuan and Sungjoo helped him with.

The expression in Yibo’s face is delightful and lovely and very much unique. Special. Seungyoun’s pretty sure that nobody has ever seen it and, if he acts right and stops being obtuse, nobody ever will.

“Yibo? I’d really appreciate an answer. Because I also came to check some summer courses and maybe college applications for the next year. And Yixuan-ge got me an interview at Yuehua China to be an unpaid intern because, apparently, in capitalism they examine even free labour. But if you don’t want me here…”

“Chengyan,” the other guy interrupts him. “Shut up.”

Not giving him time to actually shut up, Yibo closes the distance between them and presses a small kiss against his cheek, near his lips. So, so near. Almost like a mirror of the spot that…

Finally catching up, Seungyoun chuckles and leans down to kiss that gremlin smile off his face. And, then, kiss him some more.

“Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday.”

Every time Seungyoun is asked what his dream job is, he says “translation _”_.

People usually raise their eyebrows and, the very next moment, inquiry if he has not attended Hanlim. Then, they frown when the peals of laughter reverberate.

Seungyoun finds his own joke particularly funny. Apparently, Wang Yibo does too.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it!♥ 
> 
> edit 27/08: I fixed some mistakes. If you find more, please tell me! Thank you for reading!


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